


Lethe

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things you can't forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lethe

Sam’s dealing with a pair of violent poltergeists in Biloxi when Dean finds him the first time.

When he returns to the motel one night, freshly-bought canisters of herbs clinking against the sawed-off shotgun and vials of holy water in the weapons bag, his mind is already ten hours ahead of him. He's busy mapping out the expulsion ritual Missouri gave him yesterday, and Step Five _(was he supposed to recite the_ Pater Noster _or the_ Gloria _while walking the perimeter?)_ has all of his attention as he opens the door.

Later, when he comes to, Sam's first thought is that he really has to start paying more attention to his surroundings, because he doesn't even register the fact that he's not alone—that someone’s fist is hurtling toward his face—until he wakes up tied to the room’s single chair.

Then again, when he focuses on the man sitting on the bed—on that dark head bent in study as its owner rifles through the weapons bag—Sam decides that this situation might not be his fault after all. Dean’s good at not being noticed when he doesn’t want to be: he should be, he’s spent his whole life practicing.

Sam spends a few minutes quietly scrutinizing his brother, and notices that Dean’s thinner than he used to be. His hair is longer, too—not as long as Sam’s, but it brushes the tops of his ears and Dean keeps trying to push it back, tuck it away out of his face. It’s the longest Sam has ever seen his brother’s hair: Dean always kept it short, military-style. Said it gave the sons of bitches they hunted one less thing to grab onto. It hurts more than he thinks it should, seeing that haircut. It isn’t Dean—not _his_ Dean—and he’s aching inside when Dean glances over and stills, eyes narrowing.

“You’re awake.” Whatever else has changed, that voice is the same: rough and low.

Hearing it snaps Sam back to his childhood: to days spent in the backseat of the Impala collecting states on passing license plates, to the smell of mac and cheese—half burnt until Dean finally figured out how to work the stove properly—to scuffles on the hot asphalt of hundreds of motel parking lots. Dad’s watchful eyes studying, Dad’s voice calling out sharp corrections. And Sam’s so screwed because he still hasn’t figured out exactly how he wants to play this, and suddenly all he wants to do is pull his brother into a bear hug and make sure that Dean's real: that he's still here, still alive.

“Yeah,” Sam grunts, opting for the 'less-is-safer' route. Maybe if he closes his eyes and played dead for a little longer, Dean will be gone when he wakes up.

Dean gets up and comes closer, those familiar green eyes fixed on Sam, and he still moves like he used to: graceful and dangerous, like a man with lightning bottled beneath his skin. _How much does he remember?_ Sam wonders. _How much is this going to suck?_ Turns out the answers to his questions are 'not much' and 'a lot.'

“Who the hell are you?” his brother demands.

“I’m the guy you knocked out and tied to a chair. Mind letting me up?”

Dean’s expression shifts—he’s so open like this; Sam can read practically every thought as it slides across his brother's face—and he snorts in derision. “Yeah, right. Like I’m letting a freak like you loose.”

Even though Dean doesn’t—can't—remember, that word slams into Sam’s chest as painfully as any rock salt he ever unloaded on his brother. Because _Sam_ remembers St. Louis, and another Dean that wasn't really his, although in some ways the shifter came closer than the man standing in front of him now. He remembers Dean's teasing smile once the imposter was dead and they were heading away—heading toward Arkansas, maybe. Although he can't be sure of their destination, Sam remembers his brother's words as if that trip took place yesterday. He can practically hear them echo in the room now:

 _‘Well, that’s cuz you’re a freak.’_

 _‘Yeah, thanks.’_

 _‘Well I’m a freak, too. I’m right there with you, all the way.’_

But it isn't true anymore—not for Dean—and every day Sam thanks God for that small blessing. And no matter how much it kills him to do so, he isn’t going to let his brother damn himself again.

“What do you mean?” Sam asks innocently, starting to work his hands against the rope—his _own_ rope, for crying out loud—that binds him. Carefully. Unobtrusively. He breathes out a small sigh of relief as he discovers that, however many of Dean's old skills have resurfaced—how to break into a locked room, how to knock someone out without damaging them too much, how to find Sam in the first place—knots are not one of them.

Dean crosses the space between the chair and the bed in one step. Lifts Sam’s shotgun. “Gun,” he says, and then puts it back down. “Weird-ass herbs. Huge fucking knife.”

Shit, Sam has been hoping that Dean didn’t search him after he knocked him out. It's okay, though; he can still get loose without the knife. He's just gonna have to work a little harder, is all.

Dean turns back to Sam and then reaches around to the small of his back. He pulls his shirt up and draws a thin, leather-bound book from the small of his back. Deja-vu hits Sam with the force of a Mack truck—yeah, he actually knows what that feels like—and shoves the breath from his lungs.

Dean used to carry their father’s journal like that sometimes, with the worn cover tucked against his skin. It was the only thing they had of the man, both Before and After. Dean hadn't wanted to keep anything else and Sam had buried the one thing he'd taken above an empty grave in Kansas.

The memories are so strong that it takes Sam a few moments to realize that he's not looking at the journal. This book is smaller, and besides, Dad’s journal is in the glove compartment of the Impala where it belongs. No, right now Dean is brandishing …

Oh _hell_.

“Books on fucking _exorcisms_?” his brother says.

There isn’t any way Sam can begin to answer that, so instead he says, “Don’t you know it’s not nice to go through other people’s stuff?”

“Whatever.” Dean waves a hand and tosses the book aside, then crouches next to the chair. Within reach, if Sam were free. It’s a mistake Dean would never make if he were himself—if he remembered. As Sam feels the rope on his right wrist give a little, he's grateful that not everything has come back to his brother. It will make this easier.

“So, who are you?” Dean asks again.

“I should be asking _you_ that,” Sam answers, stalling. “You’re the one in my motel room, and you’re the one who—let me think: oh yeah—punched me and tied me to the fucking chair!”

“Yeah, well you’re the one in my dreams.”

Sam stills at the revelation. Is that how this happened? Had he, missing his brother, found some way to reach out in his subconscious and tap him on the shoulder? _Hey, Dean, remember me? It’s Sam, your brother!_

Except Dean _doesn’t_ remember, and that’s the whole goddamned point, isn’t it?

“You’re having dreams about me,” Sam repeats softly.

Dean rolls his eyes. “What, are you deaf as well as crazy? I just said I was. You and me. In a car—something heavy and classic—driving somewhere. Cheap-ass motels, diners … Once we were fighting—a train station somewhere. Something about California.”

That hurts, but not as much as what Dean says next.

“Another time it was a cabin. Out in the middle of nowhere, I think, and there was someone else there—a guy, older, dark hair …”

Oh God. _That?_ Sam would give anything to forget that night and the days that followed—too bright lights; sharp smell of disinfectant; Dean lying still and so small while the heart monitor counts out the faltering moments of his life; Dad on the floor, even stiller—and Dean’s subconscious chooses _that_ to scrounge up and wave under his nose. Even when his memory is safely locked behind a door, Dean has managed to find a way to break in and reclaim the shittiest parts of himself. It’s a reminder that, even when he isn’t himself, Dean doesn’t want to be saved.

Sometimes Sam thinks his brother is a little masochistic.

“So you gonna tell me what all that means?” Dean demands, rocking forward a little on the balls of his feet. His eyes are dark, intense, the way they are when he hunts. Sam can smell Dean now, he’s so close. The hint of leather is the same, and the underlying muskiness that is his brother, but there is no whiff of gunpowder. No stale undercurrent of blood.

Dean shifts, reaching into his pocket, and pulls something out so he can swing it in Sam’s face. “What’s this?”

Another jolt of pain, fisting Sam's heart. _That’s your amulet, you dumb fuck. Dad gave it to you when you were twelve and you never took it off. I wear it around my neck because, other than that stupid car you love so much, it’s all I have left of you. All I_ can _have._

But he only says, “Necklace. Bought it at a craft fair last year.”

“Bullshit.” Dean jerks his hand, sending the amulet in a short upward arc and catching it. It disappears back into his pocket. “You’ve got one more chance to give me some answers and then I’m calling the cops.”

Sam stifles a laugh. _Dean's_ threating to call in the _police_ , of all people. It’s too much on top of everything else—too painful, too surreal. His wrist slips more: one good yank and his arm will be free. But Dean is getting ready to stand, to move away, and Sam needs him closer.

“Okay,” he says quickly. “I’ll tell you, but it’s a secret and the room is bugged, so I need to whisper it, all right?” _God, Sam, he’s never going to buy that, how stupid can you be?_ But Dean is shrugging, face set in this 'let’s humor the crazy man' expression, and he’s leaning closer.

Sam decides not to look a gift-horse in the mouth and pulls his right hand free. Then, before Dean notices anything’s changed, he punches his brother with all the force he can muster while his left remains securely tied to the chair. He hears something pop and pain flares in his left shoulder—dislocated, and that’s gonna be a bitch—but Dean’s body goes slack and he falls forward onto the floor and lays still. Sam laughs—painfully, hysterically—and then goes about setting himself loose.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later, with his brother drugged and asleep in the bed and his own shoulder back in place, Sam takes out his cell phone and dials.

“Hullo?”

“Hey, Bobby.”

“Sam. You find him?”

“He found me, actually, which—a little warning would've been nice. Didn’t have to be much, just: hey, Sam, your brother’s disappeared so he’s probably looking for you, maybe you want to watch out for that.”

Bobby snorts. “I tried calling. Left you a coupla messages, too. Help if you checked them.”

“Oh.” And yeah, Sam feels like shit now, because there _had_ been messages, but he hadn’t wanted to deal with them at the time. Had figured that he’d check them when the job was done. What the hell had he been thinking? Was he _hoping_ something like this had happened? Was some desperate, lonely part of him trying to sabotage his brother’s last—hell, _first_ —chance at some kind of life? “Sorry.”

“Something wrong?" Something _else_ , Bobby means. "Not like you to go all incommunicado on us.”

 _Just taking after my dad, I guess._ But aloud, Sam says, “I’m bringing him back. It’ll take me a few days to get there. Can you pick up the stuff?”

Bobby hesitates. “I dunno, Sam. Doesn’t seem right, what you’re doing. Dean doesn’t seem to approve either.”

They've already had this conversation. Had it for almost a month straight before Bobby agreed to help him the first time. Sam bites back on a frustrated grunt and says, “If you won’t help me, I’ll go to someone who will.”

“Now hold on there, Sam. Didn’t say I wouldn’t.” Bobby sighs. “As long as you’re hell-bent on doing this, it’s gonna be me. The boy knows me, and he’ll be safe here. I just think maybe you should reconsider.”

“You want Dean to die?”

“Hell no! I just … It ain’t right, is all.” Sam hears the soft scritch of Bobby running one hand over his stubbled chin. “Keeps me up nights, damn it. I already got enough to answer for; don’t need to add more to the list.”

Sam can’t really say anything to that because he knows how Bobby feels. He’s pretty sure he was damned before, but this? What he’s doing to Dean? How did that saying about the road to Hell and good intentions go?

In the end, though, he just grates, “We’ll be there in two days. Have the stuff ready,” and hangs up.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The second time Dean finds him, Sam is having lunch in a diner in Bumfuck, Ohio. Just passing through on his way to a job. He’s chewing on a burger and staring at the second one he ordered—not because he had any intention of eating it _(he isn’t that much of a pig)_ but because the table looked wrong with just one greasy plate.

Sam thinks now that it is worse having it there and not snarking at the man across from him—what man, haha—about the way he’s flirting with the waitress, and how one of these days he’s finally gonna catch something nasty. He never believed that, of course; Dean was so fucking lucky that somedays Sam suspected that his brother walked around with a rabbit’s foot, a four leaf clover and a horse shoe tucked away in his back pocket.

The bell above the door rings as it opens and Sam looks up and Dean is there. Bobby called yesterday to tell him that Dean took off again, but Sam expected to have a few more days before his brother caught up with him. It’s a big country, after all. Apparently, though, his brother is a hunting dog with the scent of Sam in his mouth, because he came straight here.

Like a fucking homing pigeon.

Sam waits, heart in his mouth, for Dean to approach him, but his brother’s eyes slide past him easily as he makes his way to the counter and sits down. Sam thinks that maybe he’s going to get out of this one the easy way—good, old-fashioned avoidance: the tried-and-true Winchester method of choice—but then Dean turns in his seat. His eyes fasten on Sam and he frowns, head tilting in that studious way he has sometimes.

Sam is sliding out of the booth before he thinks about it. He tosses some bills on the table—enough to cover his meal and probably a hearty tip besides—and heads out the door. He eyes the Impala, tempted to just take off, and then goes around behind the diner instead. It’s dirty back here, strewn with garbage and littered with tiny puddles of brown water from the recent rain. But it’s quiet, and empty.

When Dean strolls around after him, hands shoved deep in his pockets and head swiveling, eyes scanning, Sam whispers the incantation he spent last night memorizing and tosses a handful of herbs on his brother. Dean has time to blink once, and then he falls forward into Sam’s arms, fast asleep and already snoring.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Bobby?”

“You get him?”

Sam sighs. “Yeah.”

“You manage not to hurt him this time?”

Sam presses his lips together. It isn’t as though he’d meant to break Dean’s nose. It’s difficult to punch a man accurately when three of your four limps are tied securely to a puffy motel chair. “Yeah. Sleep spell. Worked okay.”

“Good.”

“We’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Sam …”

“What?” And his tone says, _‘you’d better not be asking me if I really want to do this, because we both know I don’t, and you’d better not be telling me that it’s wrong, because I don’t care.’_

“Nothing. See you tomorrow.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The third time, Sam finds Dean. It’s easier this way—no waiting, no wondering if he’s going to be jumped by his brother every time he walks into a room. So, yeah, the third time is easier. But it’s harder, too, because as Sam is driving back to Bobby’s, with Dean drugged and asleep in the backseat, all he really wants to do was drive as fast as he can in the opposite direction. Hole up somewhere on the other side of tomorrow, and let his brother come back to him.

Behind him, Dean shifts uneasily. “Sammy, please …”

It’s just a whisper, just words, but suddenly Sam can feel his blood running out through the hole in his heart—the Dean-shaped hole where his brother used to be. He drives faster.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bobby manages to stop Dean at the gate the fourth time, but Sam has to come back anyway because he needs to be there for the ritual. As he chants over his brother’s unconscious body, runes drawn on his brother’s skin in blood and a thick herbal paste, he wonders how Bobby explains the scars. How he explains any of it.

But Sam doesn’t ask because, really? He doesn’t want to know.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The fifth time is totally Sam’s fault. He’s in the area and just … He can’t _not_ see Dean. So he takes the Impala to Bobby’s garage for a tune-up and watches his brother work on the engine with careful, skilled hands. Watches Dean smile and absently pat the car, humming as he works.

And for the first time Sam feels relief instead of panic when Dean straightens suddenly, turning to look at him, and breaths out, “You son of a bitch.”

Bobby nearly takes Sam’s hide off for that one. He makes him promise to stay away if he wants this so much. Because Bobby has only so much patience, and he isn’t going to sacrifice a chicken every time Sam has the sudden urge to see his brother. Sam hears everything Bobby says and he hears everything he doesn’t say.

 _Just take him. Take him and go. You’re miserable; he misses you even when he doesn’t know that there’s anything there to be missing. Take him and go. Be his brother for God’s sake._

But Sam thinks, _That’s what I’m doing._

He promises Bobby he’ll stay away, and he leaves, alone, before Dean wakes up.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam is in Maine the sixth time, in a little abandoned cabin in the woods where several hikers have disappeared recently. He has narrowed it down to either a wendigo or the manifestation of the local Indian tribe’s bear totem and is debating heading back to town tomorrow to do some more research. This time, he’s alert enough to try to dodge the fist coming at him when he opens the cabin door, and Dean only catches him a glancing blow on his left cheekbone.

“Ow!” he yells, more in surprise than pain. Then Dean is on him, punching and twisting and kicking, and Sam has more important things to do than talk.

Something is different this time: he can feel it. Dean is moving too smoothly; is anticipating Sam’s moves and either blocking or avoiding them. When Sam steps back to avoid a particularly vicious right hook and trips over the bag of clothes he left by the foot of the bed, Dean spins away and goes to the wall instead of pressing his advantage. He leans there, trembling, with his head down and his chest heaving with each breath.

Sam props himself up on one elbow and watches, not sure what to do, and then he’s up and moving toward Dean, who is punching the wall like it’s a feather pillow. Who is laying into the hard wood with all his strength and weight and sobbing and swearing all at once.

Sam grabs his shoulders to pull him away—Dean’s knuckles are cracked open and he’s _bleeding_ , for Christ's sake—and Dean turns on him, snake-like. Somehow Sam ends up against the wall with his brother's fists wrapped in his shirt.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean shouts, and he slams Sam back against the wall again. “You goddamn idiot!” Another slam. “You … Fuck!”

Dean slams him again, hard enough that Sam is dazed, and then he lets go. He backs away and drops onto the bed, where he leans forward, covers his face with his hands, and is finally still.

Just as Sam is going to try edging away from the wall, or possibly even saying something, Dean whispers: “Why, Sammy? Why the hell did you do it?”

Sam’s strength runs out of him like water, like blood, and he slides down the wall to sit on the floor. His mouth is dry.

“Bobby told you.” Which would explain why Sam hasn’t received a warning call.

But Dean utters a broken laugh and shakes his cradled head. “No. I remembered. I remembered everything.”

“Dean, I—”

“No!” Now Dean’s head does come up, and his eyes are dry and expressionless. Hollow. “I don’t want to hear it, Sam. No excuses. Just …” He runs a hand through his hair, and Sam realizes that he’s cut it again, back to military precision. “I would have left, if that’s what you wanted. Hell, I tried to let you go, but you wouldn’t—you didn’t have to mind-fuck me to get rid of me.”

If Sam had a little more control over his body at the moment he would laugh. Get rid of him? Dean thinks Sam wanted to get rid of him?

Dean stands, his arms loose. Blood drips from his knuckles onto the floor. “Look, I just came here to tell you that I won’t bother you. All you have to do is leave me alone, man, and I’ll stay gone. But if you fuck with my head again, I’ll—I swear to God …” He swallows thickly. “Just don’t.”

But Sam hears what Dean doesn’t say. If asking doesn’t stop Sam—if Dean finds that his memory has been wiped clean again—he won’t be able to hurt Sam to stop him. Won't be able to make Sam stop the way he would if someone else were responsible. So Dean will take the only other route open to him: the only route guaranteed to end it. He'll do it because Sam has forced him into it.

It's all so perfectly ironic.

Dean is almost out the door before Sam finds his voice.

“Dean!”

He isn’t sure that his brother will stop, but Dean does. Wary, he stands silhouetted in the doorway. One wrong word and he’ll run. And Sam doesn’t think he’ll be able to find Dean the way Dean finds him—not when Dean is in his right mind, with all his resources at his disposal.

“Don’t …” _Go_ , Sam wants to say, but he closes down on it. Asking Dean to stay, he knows, will only push him out the door. Telling Dean that he loves him will send his brother sprinting to the ends of the earth. _Make him angry_ , Sam thinks. _He’ll stay to fight._ Dean always stays to fight.

“Is Bobby okay?” is what finally comes out of his mouth. Sam hates himself for manipulating his brother like this: hates himself more for hurting Dean the way he has. He thought that Dean was broken before, but now that he has this for comparison ... Hell, Sam’s doing a better job than the demon ever could.

But he can't dwell on that right now because his brother is turning around to look at him, and for the first time there is fire in those green eyes. “You actually think I’d hurt him?” Dean demands.

“Just wondering if he got the same treatment I did.”

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say because Dean’s eyes are shutting down. He's turning all his rage inward again because he hurt his baby brother—hurt Sam—and that goes against Dean’s Prime Directive. Even now, after everything Sam has done to him, Sam can tell that Dean hates himself for it.

And that can't be allowed to continue because it’s Sam’s turn. It should have been Sam’s turn years ago.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he starts, but it’s too late—Dean’s turning for the door again: he's _leaving_ —and isn’t that Sam’s job? Hasn’t it always been Sam’s job?

Sam starts to scramble to his feet, even though he's not sure what he intends to do when he manages to get up. He feels his hand close on something soft and smooth, and when he glances down, he sees that it’s a small bag of herbs. It probably got knocked free in the scuffle and, in spite of everything, God must love him because it’s the _right_ bag.

Sam doesn’t let himself think about it; he doesn’t hesitate. The chant rolls off his tongue in a rush, and the strange words make Dean glance back, curious. Yanking the bag open, Sam tosses the contents up toward his brother. He doesn't really expect the herbs to reach Dean, but it's his last chance: his only chance.

When Dean collapses in a heap on the floor, Sam almost sobs with relief. He still has no clue how to begin making this right, but at least now he’s gonna have the chance.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When the sleeping charm wears off three hours later, Sam has Dean tied to the bed—carefully, because his brother’s a slippery son of a bitch—and is sitting next to him in a creaky wooden chair with his hands held calmly in his lap. The amulet—Dean’s amulet—is back around his brother’s neck where it belongs. Sam is waiting and wishing that this place had sturdier chairs because right now Dean is a mirror image of their father, right down to the scab of dried blood on his lower lip where one of Sam’s punches caught him earlier.

Sam doesn’t need to be thinking about that shit, and he wouldn’t be if he could have used the chair to restrain Dean. He wouldn't be looking at his brother and seeing their father there. Wouldn't be remembering that even then it was too late: the demon was already inside John, events were in motion.

Dean goes from being asleep to wide awake instantly and Sam isn’t ready for him. Not by a long shot.

“You gonna drag me back to Bobby’s now? Mind-rape me again?”

Sam winces at his brother’s words, but he deserves them, so he doesn’t argue. “No, but we need to talk.”

“I don’t think so, Sam. Let me up.”

“No. You’re not leaving.”

“Well, I’m not going back to Bobby’s. I’m not going to let you fuck me over again. One way or another. If I have to, I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Kill yourself?”

Dean flinches at Sam's bluntness, or maybe his tone: voice so roughened by emotion that it’s barely recognizable. But now that he's himself again, Dean recovers quickly and his face shutters in the next moment. He looks away from Sam, not admitting anything, but not denying it either.

Sam's jaw firms. “I’m not letting you.”

“Then untie me.”

“No. You have to—please, you have to listen to me. And you have to try to hear what I’m saying.”

“Doesn’t look like I’ve got much of a choice, does it?”

“I—I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to do it—I hated doing it—but you didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

Dean's expression is neutral: his gaze fastened on the far wall. “I told you I’d go. You didn’t have to mind-fuck me out of your life—”

“You idiot. You goddamn idiot. I didn’t—I did it because I didn’t want you to leave.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “ _That_ makes a hell of a lot of sense.”

“Shut up or I’ll gag you. I have to—just let me get this out.” Sam hesitates, waiting for his brother to make some sarcastic remark, but Dean just lays there. Sam takes a deep breath. As he speaks, he tries to ignore the aching void in his chest.

“I told myself—I told Bobby—that I was doing it for you. That I wanted you to have a chance at a normal life.”

“Because having your memory wiped by your brother is completely normal.”

Sam should know by now that Dean isn't capable of keeping his mouth shut. He gets up and looks around for something to use as a gag, doing his best to ignore the barbs his brother keeps tossing his way. After a few minutes, he realizes that there’s nothing here that will work. Okay, not a problem. Sam is resourceful.

He rummages around in his bag until he finds the book he found the sleep charm in and checks the index. Bingo. A few words and some angelica later and the flow of Dean’s stinging words cuts off abruptly. When Sam sits down again, Dean glares at him, which is at least some sign of emotion, so Sam figures that they’re moving in the right direction.

“Okay," he continues, "So I told myself it was for you. But it wasn’t. Not really. I did it because you’re right: I’m a selfish son of a bitch. And I wasn’t going to watch you—I wasn’t just going to stand there and watch you kill yourself.”

Dean looks away and Sam reaches out and turns his brother’s head back toward him. Forces Dean to face the truth.

“You were dying inside. Blaming yourself for Dad. And you just—you weren’t hunting anymore, Dean, you were _killing_. You were killing everything in your way like if you killed enough shit it wouldn’t matter anymore. Hell, every time we went on a hunt you left more of yourself behind, or you buried it. You were disintegrating right in front of me. And sooner or later there wouldn’t be any of you left—just the killer. And I couldn’t let you do that.”

“But when I tried to pull you out of it, you wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t—” Sam feels the tears start again, but he can’t stop himself now that he’s started. He doesn’t want to stop himself.

So he stares down at his hands and says, “Then it got worse. You started throwing yourself in front of things like it didn’t matter which one of you died. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t lose you, man. Not you too. So I went to a witch. In Alabama. And she—she told me about this ritual. And I thought, finally Dean can have his own life. I thought I’d found a way to keep you, even if I couldn’t be with you: couldn’t see you. Because at least you’d be alive, and maybe you could finally be _happy_ —"

His voice breaks and he has to swallow before he can continue.

“I just couldn’t lose you, Dean, and now I don’t know what to do because it looks like I’ve screwed everything up worse than before, and you can’t go. You can’t just leave me here to run off and get yourself killed alone and I won’t even be there with you and God what if I could have saved you please Dean you can’t leave me—”

A hand brushes his hair. Sam jerks his head up and finds himself looking at Dean. Untied, the sneaky bastard. And for a second he can’t comprehend the expression on Dean’s face as he takes his hand back—no touching, no chick-flick moments for Dean Winchester. Then memory surfaces—it’s the same look, the exact same one Dean gave him after Cassie, when Sam had asked him if he had ever wanted something else: the look that says, _‘don’t be so fucking stupid’_ and _‘I love you’_ all at once—and hope blooms in Sam's chest. It almost hurts worse than the fear of losing his brother ever did.

Sam can’t help himself, even if Dean is going to mock him about it mercilessly later—oh, thank you God, _later_ —and he starts crying: weak, helpless tears. But for once in his life, Dean reigns in that caustic tongue of his, and his hand comes back, then his arms, wrapping around Sam. Tentative, but there.

“Shhh, Sammy. It’s all right. I’m here, I got you.”

Sam laughs a little through his tears because his brother is so pig-headed stubborn not even a spell will shut him up for long, and he lets himself reach back, pull Dean tighter. Because it isn’t all right, not by a long shot, but Dean is there, and even though he hasn’t said it out loud, Sam knows that his brother isn’t leaving. Dean is still broken—hell, they’re both broken—and maybe it can’t be fixed, but at least they’re going to try.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Hullo?”

“Bobby?”

“Sam.” Wary. “You got Dean? Heading back?”

“He’s here. And no, we’re heading to Washington. Four mutilated bodies over the last three months. Gonna check it out.”

For a long time there is silence on the line, and Sam thinks he’s lost the call. Then, softly, he hears Bobby mutter, “About damn time.”

And yeah. Yeah, it is.


End file.
